


Fulcrum

by atrickstertype



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abandonment, Anxiety, BDSM, Beating, Biting, Blood, Bloodplay, Bondage, Breathplay, Dom/sub, Domdrop, Dysfunctional Relationships, M/M, Multi, Needles, Scars, Sherlock Holmes is Bad at Relationships, Skinning, Subdrop, Subspace, Triggers, Verbal Abuse, dropping, dubcon, noncon, scalpels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-11-13
Packaged: 2017-11-18 14:34:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/562112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atrickstertype/pseuds/atrickstertype
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John are in an established  D/S relationship before the Fall. While Sherlock's away, John and Sebastian come together, both looking for something the other can't quite offer. Then Sherlock comes back. Heed the warnings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Resistance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pennypaperbrain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pennypaperbrain/gifts).



> This was written for "Breaking the Sex Mold," in answer to the prompt: Johnlock switching! You almost never see this in fic, it’s as if everyone kinky is rigidly dom or sub. So: John and Sherlock are in a happy BDSM relationship (the writer can choose who’s the top, and whether it’s lifestyle D/s or occasional SM), but one partner is becoming increasingly insistent that they want to try switching. The other partner initially hates this idea… but then what? 
> 
> ...I may have taken some liberties with that. Still, I hope you like it!
> 
> Credit where it is due - without shayvaalski, treesong, and andthebluestblue, my fantastic editors, this would not have been possible. All mistakes and misrepresentations are despite their constant and invaluable assistance.
> 
> Please note that this is not meant to be a how-to guide to /anything/, and is in fact probably the exact opposite. Relationships depicted herein are sometimes less than healthy and objects in the mirror may be closer than they appear.

It's not exactly friendship, what John and Sebastian have. They've been drinking together for months, mostly in silence, walking the edges of _you understand how it is_ and _I miss him_ and _fuck yours for taking mine away_ in hoarse laughter and angry looks, quickly muffled beneath another round of whiskey. After they've had enough it's easy to pretend they're just two blokes, ex-mil and jaded, sharing company in order to avoid sitting alone. They don't talk about anything important. It's better than nothing.

Except this time they don’t layer on the whiskey deep enough, blanket after blanket of Johnny Walker making things softer and more giving. This time there are still edges and sharp places and fire in their eyes that’s got nothing to do with the burn in their throats. So when Seb says his name ( _Fucking Sherlock_ , pitched like they’re synonyms and thick with contempt) John lashes out. a moment later they’re scrapping as the rest of the pub’s patrons look on in detached interest (because that’s the sort of pub this is) blood spraying from Seb’s nose and John’s lip, and fuck John has needed this. Seb’s off his guard and even though the man is bigger, thick with muscle and six inches taller, it’s quick work for John to get him up against a wall with a hand firm in the thick blond hair, holding him in place and pulling until it hurts. “Don’t you talk about him,” John says, and he shakes Seb’s head like a dog with a toy. “You don’t get to say his name, Moran. You don’t deserve it.”

And Seb’s voice is thick and low as he grunts out “Yes, Boss.”

There’s a beat as that sinks in, (because John has heard that name before, of course he has.  It’s what Seb says when he doesn’t want to ruin the night with the sound of _Jim_. Then Seb shakes himself and pulls away like a wild thing from under his hands.  John lets him go and they look at each other, separated by a few feet and a barstool that John doesn’t remember falling.

There’s no mistaking the look in Seb’s eyes, or the heat that’s building in the base of John’s backbone, and he hasn’t felt that in months. (Sherlock handcuffed at wrists and ankles, striped with bruises, splayed out on the bed as he finally, finally lets go.) It’s not a feeling he can ignore, and this pub will put up with a lot, but there have to be limits of some kind. So John grabs Seb by the collar of his shirt and pulls the man outside.

They’re no more than three steps down the nearest alley when Seb tries to throw another punch and John backhands him hard enough to send the man reeling, one hand pressed to his face. “The hell do you think you’re doing?” John asks, hard but almost conversational, curious, and Sebastian looks at him and grins like a bloody madman.

“Think I was pointing out that your boyfriend was a piece of shit, Johnny,” he says, and dodges the next punch with a sneer, slamming an answering fist up into John’s side. “Maybe mentioning that we’d all be better if Fucking Sherlock Holmes had-”

The roar in his ears cuts off whatever Sebastian is saying and John shouldn’t, he knows he shouldn’t, but he slams the heel of one foot into Sebastian’s knee and steps in, wrapping an arm around Seb’s neck. “Funny. What I heard was you calling me _Boss,”_ he says, and Seb’s whole _body_ shudders against him.

“Fuck you,” Seb growls between panting breaths, and John just grins.

“Fine,” he says, and Seb drives his elbows into John’s gut with a harsh laugh.

It’s disorienting as fuck, half a fight and half... not a scene, exactly. But as John reaches into Sebastian’s trousers with one dry hand and Seb lets him, his body humming with tension, John aches to push him just that bit further, to feel the man go pliant and focused beneath him. Even as it is Sebastian is on the edge of dropping, desperation in the spasm of his hands on John’s chest, but John is too fucking angry to allow them any more.  It isn’t safe. He wants to hurt Sebastian, to fucking punish him for what he said, for Moriarty, for Sherlock’s death, but he will have to content himself with bringing the man off rough in a back alley, Seb’s hands so hard on his shoulders that they will leave marks.

Sebastian’s legs go out from under him, and John helps him to the ground, disgusted at himself for taking without knowing what was being offered. They crouch for a moment as John wipes his hand against the brick of the building, the sounds of the city slowly filtering back in. When Sebastian reaches for his belt John pulls away. “I shouldn’t have done that,” he says, voice so controlled that it’s almost clipped.

“Fuck ‘should’,” Sebastian says, and reaches out again. It takes all of John’s will to stand up and take the few steps to the alley entrance. He waits until Seb huffs out a breath and stands, tucking himself away and following after.

That should be the end of it. Except that when John shows up for their next drinking night Sebastian is already there, a tumbler of whiskey in one hand and a closed-off, expectant look on his face, and John wants him so badly it knocks him back a step.

He sits Sebastian down a few nights later, when it’s clear that this isn’t going to stop, not if they kept meeting up at the pub and drinking until things get easier, until the sharpness of _I miss him_ and _I need you to understand_ is faded and eased into simple _need_. And if it’s going to continue they need to talk, but as soon as he says negotiate, looking across his kitchen table at Sebastian, he can see the man shutting down, see the shutters clicking into place behind his eyes.

“Trust me, John,” he says, almost amused. “There isn’t a damn thing you can throw at me that I’ll say no to.”  Which isn’t a negotiation at all, not really, but it’s bloody familiar. (Sherlock with chin up and eyes bright saying “I’d prefer not to know, as much as possible. Not that it will change much, but...”)

And if John is irresponsible, leaving it at that, then so be it. He gets the distinct impression that if he pushes any harder for definition or limits Sebastian will just get disgusted and leave, and John doesn’t think he could bear another night alone with the image of Seb thrusting up into his hand. It’s easier to give Moran a safeword and trust him to know his own body well enough to use it, if he needs to.

Two years later and he still hasn’t, not even on the nights when John lets go, takes what he needs without asking or warning and leaves Seb bruised, head thrown back and throat working, looking up at John expectantly from half-lidded eyes. And it’s always expectant, even when Seb’s just come across the sheets, even when he’s been on the edge for hours and John isn’t sure how he’s still conscious, even when John is positive that Sebastian has gone under. There’s that look, afterwards, and John can’t shake the feeling that he’s leaving out some crucial element. It’s not hard to guess what, not with how Seb responds to the amount of pain John is comfortable with dealing, but John has pushed him to the edges of safety and still gotten that look, the cracked voice begging, “Johnny _please_ fuck, please just fucking _cut_ me.”

John wonders sometimes what Seb would do if he gave in and carved a ‘W’ over the ‘M’  on Sebastian’s left hip - the thick white-pink scar tissue raised and even and practiced, ‘J.M.’ like a bloody cattle brand. The thought makes him sick, even though he’s sure Seb would love it, would drop like a stone and go silent and still under his knife. He won’t. He will not cause that kind of damage.

So they make do. They do their best, and it’s good, it’s enough. Seb moves in gradually but as a matter of course, taking up space in John’s dresser and at the kitchen table and in his bed. If there’s something that he needs that John can’t give him, something that leaves John on-edge and disappointed some nights, it’s not enough to ruin the long days together. It doesn’t change the moments that Seb comes in the door with two more bags of groceries than he can easily carry, and John has to help the daft bastard navigate to the kitchen without falling over, and he’s so fond it almost hurts. It doesn’t change the way he catches Seb looking at him sometimes, in the evenings, like he’s surprised or pleased or confused, or the way they wake each other up from nightmares, silent and understanding and solid. It definitely doesn’t change the fact that when Seb lets the lease on his flat run out and shows up with one more bag of clothing John doesn’t hesitate a moment, is nothing but pleased as he steps aside and waves Sebastian in.

It would be alright, John thinks, if it went on like this. There’s a sort of balance to it.


	2. Motion

Sebastian likes to think he’s been pretty fucking understanding about the whole thing. Would have left as soon as Holmes came back if Johnny hadn’t been so fucking insistent, and if it hadn’t seemed like it might kill him to try. As is, he’s been giving them as much leeway as they need to figure each other out again. Can’t very well do anything else, knowing how important the son of a bitch is to John. But this is actually starting to try his patience.

Holmes won’t stop fucking moving.

It’s like watching a tiger, Sebastian thinks. Or maybe something smaller, like a jaguar. Some big cat in a cage too small for it, something that hasn’t been able to run in weeks. Homes is twitchy, agitated, and watching him run his fingers through his hair Seb stands and walks over to stand behind John. However Holmes lashes out, and he will, it’s not going to hurt John. Sebastian can guarantee that.

Holmes stares at him, and there’s something almost violent behind his usual contempt, a there-and-gone flash before he looks back down at John. “It has been,” he says, “three weeks. You’ve had more than ample time to consider it.”

“And I told you,” John says, “I’m not comfortable with the idea. Not yet. Maybe not ever, Sherlock. It’s not something I do.” He’s got that firm, put-upon tone to his voice that Seb knows means he’s about two minutes from being actually angry.

“You can’t possibly know that,” Sherlock says, dismissive, and Seb cuts that estimate in half. John sits up even straighter in his chair and Seb only just cuts him off.

“Might say we ran a few experiments while you were away,” he says, smirking. “Johnny knows what he’s talking about.”

Holmes sneers at him like he’s just soiled the rug. “Your failure in a dominant role is hardly surprising, Moran.”

Seb drops a hand down to rest on John’s shoulder and sneers right back. “Guess I’ll just have to settle for what I’ve got.”  Holmes glances down at the ring on his finger, just like Seb wants him to, and he can just about guess how much the man hates him, right now.

John stands with a jerk, pulls away from Seb and walks to the door. “I’m not going to fight about this,” he says as he’s pulling his coat down. “If you want to force an answer, Sherlock, it’s going to be no. To both. No, I won’t scene with you, not after all of this, and no, I won’t sub. It’s not a good idea.” He looks to Sebastian. “I’m going for a walk.”

“Go on,” Seb says, crossing his arms over his chest. “We promise to play nice.”

Sherlock snorts and John looks over at him, frown deepening, before he nods. “Shouldn’t be long,” he says, and then Sebastian is in a room alone with Fucking Sherlock, for the first time since the bastard waltzed back into their lives and their downstairs room.

John must be _pissed._

Sebastian spreads his hands wide and sits down in John’s vacated chair. “Don’t look at me,” he says, as Holmes glares at him. “I told him I was fine with it. Not my fault Johnny’s got some noble fucking ideals.” Not his fault, but he’s fucking glad of it, isn’t he? Bad enough that Sherlock is back, bad enough that John is determined to see them all get along like one big happy family. If John was taking Sherlock down to the bones of himself of a night, the way he does for Sebastian, it would be considerably harder for Seb to keep his good fucking humor.

The look Holmes gives him, long and considering and sharp enough to flay skin, brings Seb’s chin up. “Do you always lie so transparently, Moran?” Sherlock asks, after a moment. “Or was that for John's benefit?”

He didn't lie, didn't have to, and Seb’s smile is slow and pleased. “No fucking idea what you’re talking about. Might be losing your edge, Sher-”

“You can’t settle for ‘what you’ve got’,” Sherlock says, watching him too closely for Seb’s liking. “You’re trying. But at some point you’ll realize what a farce this is,” he waves his hand to include Sebastian, the flat, and somehow John, who is probably halfway down the block, “and think better of it.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Holmes,” Seb says, still amused.

Holmes crosses the room quickly, looming over Sebastian’s chair. “Then you’re satisfied, are you, with the situation? Funny. I would have thought otherwise.” He pauses. “Or is it normal for you to be this agitated, after a successful scene?”

Seb starts like he's been slapped, mind blank for a moment because there is no way for Sherlock to know. John doesn't even know. Seb has needed to fake falling into subspace before (Jim's eyes bright and knife shaking, and _More Sebby, do you need even more?_ ) The sex is good, and he _loves_ John. Not the man’s fault he knows too much about the body, what makes it work and how it breaks, to really do the kind of damage Seb wants him to. So they push, as far as John will allow, and Seb fakes the rest and it is fine.

“What we do is none of your goddamn business,” he says, and Sherlock looks so fucking smug it’s almost enough to get Sebastian to take the bait and punch the man, if only to end that damn twist of his mouth.

“I think you’ll find that John is always my business,” Sherlock says.

“Then ask John how we’re getting on, if you’re so fucking interested.” Seb stands, and Sherlock is close, inside his space, and is it Seb’s imagination or are his eyes a shade or two darker.

“Mmm. I have no doubt his praise would be glowing, however little it reflected the reality of the situation.” Holmes waves a dismissive hand that almost brushes Sebastian’s chest. “John is many things, but I _highly_ doubt he’s a suitable replacement for Jim Moriarty.”

The world goes quiet and sharp, and Sebastian breathes in through his nose and refuses to rise. “Johnny’s not a replacement for anyone, Holmes. Says something that you’d think he is.”

Sherlock snorts, eyes sliding over him and taking in too fucking much, breaking him down into pieces of information. Familiar, again. Infuriating. “I’ve no doubt that’s a piece of reassurance that the two of you repeat quite often.”

Sebastian almost snarls, leaning forward into Sherlock’s space. “It’s the truth, Holmes, however much it might pain you. John’s got a life outside of you. He’s not as fucking obsessed as Jim was. Not anymore.” He leans back and bares his teeth, seeing the humor in it. “Must just kill you that I’ve had them both.”

Pain, goddamn it, pain, and how did the man get enough momentum to make a punch count at that distance? Seb doubles over his gut and dodges left, and Sherlock’s fist is somehow there already, slamming into Seb’s throat. Some sort of fucking jujitsu, hell, Seb knew about this. He has a moment to realize with a sort of sick horror that he has gotten soft, fucking hell, before Holmes grabs his arm and slams him onto his knees. His voice, when it comes, is maybe an inch from Sebastian’s ear, and it’s got an edge to it that Seb hasn’t heard in a fucking long time. “Wrong, Moran. Guess again.”

His arm is at the wrong angle to struggle, and Sebastian sucks in a few deep breaths and waits, waits for the opening that will come eventually. “Fuck you, Holmes.”

Sherlock laughs and twists his arm up, just short of causing damage. Then he pushes forward and Seb scrabbles for balance, loses it, slams face-first into the ground without even a rug to break the fall. He doesn’t hear a crack, but his nose is bleeding, and Sherlock has shifted his weight to Seb’s back and this is suddenly. Different.

“John won’t hurt you,” Holmes is saying, voice calculating and hard and laced with intent. “Not permanently. Not the way Jim did.” His free hand pulls up Seb’s shirt and Sebastian grunts, feeling nails dig into the raised scars over his hip. J.M., big as his palm, and John hasn’t touched that scar, not once, hardly looks at it. Holmes’s hand is almost _proprietary_ , digging in hard, and there is nothing Seb can do about it. Sherlock’s won and Seb hasn’t had time to throw a goddamn punch, and if he struggles in the pin he will break his fucking arm.

God, it is such a fucking relief. Shouldn’t be. Half a dozen reasons this is bad, starting with the ring on his finger and going from there to the bland look on Holmes’s face when he started this, but fuck. He wants to let himself go, to relax against the floor and wait until it is over, wants Holmes to hit him again.

No. He is not going to do this. “I don't need John to hurt me,” he says, and his voice is more level than he would have guessed. “And I didn't ask you to, either. Get off of me, Holmes.”

Sherlock lets go of his side and just sits there for a handful of minutes, until Seb tries to crane his neck to see behind him. Then comes the answer. “No,” Holmes says, and Seb's body shivers without his permission. There's the hand again, buried in his hair, yanking his neck back and to the side, and Seb is sick with how much he _needs_ , but he tries to keep it off his face.

“You're fucking insane,” he says, and it’s strange how familiar the words are, still. “The hell do you think Johnny is going to do, if he comes back and you’re-

“We’re,” Holmes corrects, and his voice is like a fucking roll of thunder in Seb’s bones “You’re hardly an unwilling participant, Sebastian.”

“I am telling you to get off of me,” Seb says, three years of John’s quiet reason in his tone. “I’ll say it again. I’m not consenting to whatever the fuck you think you’re doing, Holmes. Get off.”

Sherlock’s hand loosens on Seb’s arm, and he shifts his weight just enough to let Sebastian move, if he wants to, and the invitation lies there for a second before Seb surges up, slamming his elbow back into Sherlock’s side and rolling out from under him. He’s expecting resistance, expecting to hurt again, but Sherlock lets him move, goes loose and lets him pin wrists and ankles, and there is someone lithe and dark and almost fragile underneath him. Seb wants in ways that have nothing to do with Sherlock Holmes, have very little to do with thought. But there is John, who is the only reason Seb is still breathing after these three years, and who said as soon as they let Sherlock move in _don’t let him get to you_.

Seb sits up, stands in a disjointed motion that lets him know his legs aren’t working properly.  “I’m not playing your fucking games, Holmes,” he says, and Sherlock stands like smoke rises.

“Then I’ll win,” he replies, and he bites Sebastian’s mouth. Doesn’t even pretend it’s a kiss, just shoves Seb back against the wall and bites and there’s a taste of blood and.

He tastes like Jim.

“Fuck,” Sebastian says, shoving him away. Holmes looks too fucking pleased with himself and he’s staring like Seb isn’t much more than ambulatory food. _The fuck you say, virgin,_ Seb thinks, which is nonsense because he’s known that Sherlock and John were together for years, now. Still.    

Then Sherlock steps forward again and the fistfight that follows is glorious, fast, and when Seb’s knees hit the floor hard Holmes is right behind him, yanking his hair back and biting his neck, and it will bruise and John will leave and it is no more than Seb deserves.

At some point, going down isn’t a choice. Seb just... loosens. Doesn’t sag, exactly, but stops fighting, and the moan that comes from his mouth is almost a surprise to hear, like it’s coming from a distance.

“There,” Sherlock says, taking Seb’s chin in his hand and turning it back and forth. He licks his lips and Seb’s eyes lock onto them, onto the way Sherlock’s breath is coming too quick, and the words just roll over him. “I thought that might be a trigger, given James’s tendency toward an oral fixation. So you’re...” He reaches out and puts a hand on Seb’s trousers, palm along the erection, and squeezes hard enough that Seb sees stars and is left gasping, pain and pleasure forming one great current.

There is breath and blood in his mouth, and on Sherlock’s, and Seb shakes his head, which feels heavy and ungainly as he tries to focus in. “No,” he manages, tongue slow to respond, and the hand slamming back into his face is a fucking benediction. He hates himself for how good it is, and how easily he takes it, how easy it is to look back at Sherlock’s face.

“Let go of me,” he says, even though he could move his head back easily, even though the thought of Sherlock pulling away and leaving him like this is a fucking nightmare. Sherlock just smiles, tight and violent.

“I think not,” he says, and the wave of relief is followed by another as Holmes sinks a fist into his chest, and then another into his face, and Seb takes them like they’re taps, and that’s good, isn’t it, it’s been so long and he’s hardly moving as Holmes hits him, as breath is pushed out of his lungs and he balances himself with one hand, and he is doing so well and this is fine, this is good, why wouldn’t this be good?

“What the bloody... _Sherlock_!”

Thank Christ, says one part of Seb, and Fuck No says another, and then Sherlock is gone and John is there, hands gentle on his face. Which should be good, it should be better, Seb should want this, and he doesn’t, and he’s fucking failed, and the calm is fading into something harsh and jagged in his chest that he can’t quite breathe around.

“I was proving a point, John,” Sherlock says. “One that Sebastian was too much of an idiot to see without an object lesson.”

“An object lesson?” John barks, and he’s still touching Seb but ( _too much of an idiot_ ) it’s not enough and Seb is almost sure he’s shaking. “Get the fuck out of here, Sherlock. Get out.”

“John, you do not want me to leave right now. As weak as Sebastian is—” Seb jerks away at that, from John, from the whole goddamn room, and fuck. Fuck.

“I’ve gotten Seb through a drop before, I can—”

“No,” Sherlock says, insistent. “You haven’t.” And finally Seb’s voice starts to work again, and he climbs to his feet with a snarl.

“Get out,” he says, and it’s anger, anger at being manipulated like this, anger that Sherlock is still here, anger that it’s Sherlock who came back. “Get out, Holmes, or so fucking help me.” John is there at his elbow, a hand on his arm, and Seb wants to shoot Holmes, wants to go on his knees and beg because he can do better, he is _better_ , if Holmes will just let him prove it, and what is the sick son of a bitch even trying to do?

“It would make far more sense,” Sherlock says, “if I stayed. I’m sure we can come to some sort of arrangement...”

“You just... Sebastian can hardly _stand_ ,” John says, and there’s another way he’s failed, not even having control over his fucking legs. “What kind of arrangement do you think we’re likely to come to, Sherlock?”

“You can’t put Sebastian into subspace. You never have. I, on the other hand...” Again with the waving hand and Sebastian is so fucking tired of being dismissed, like he’s an afterthought, unimportant.

"I told you I don’t need it,” he says, and the words are hardly out of his mouth before Sherlock growls “Easy Tiger,” low and Irish and Seb goes plummeting with a gasp, hand coming out to close on John’s arm and hold himself up.

“Jesus fuck,” John mutters, catching him and easing him into a chair. “We will talk about this later, Sherlock. I need you to give us time, now. That’s not a request.” His voice is hard and military, the words an order, and Seb buries his face in his hands to keep from doing something ill advised.

He can hear Sherlock’s smirk when he says “Very well.” Then Holmes walks out of the room and down the hall, and John is there again, too kind, easing Seb back  up into himself with words like a litany. “Look at you, ‘Bastian. You did so well, you’re so good like this, now come back to me.” He doesn’t want to, he isn’t _done_ , and it’s like a cord is stretched out in his chest, tight and painful, unfulfilled. But he does, anyway, wraps his hands around John’s wrists and holds on, and tries not to feel like a complete fucking failure.

“I’m sorry, Johnny,” he says, and John talks right over it.

“That’s alright, Bastian, nothing to be sorry for. You’re fine. I’ve got you.” And god help him, he loves the man, but sometimes John Watson is a stupid son of a bitch. He should know, he should see what’s going on, Sebastian shouldn’t have to explain to him. Jim would know. Sherlock would know.

Sebastian should have left the minute Holmes stepped in that door.

“He was telling the truth,” Seb says, voice harsh, and it’s like ripping off a bandage before the wound has scabbed. “Took me further in fifteen minutes than you’ve ever managed, John. The sex is fine, but this...” He shakes his head, and rubs his face again. All of this, all this time, and he’s worse than worthless.

John goes quiet but he doesn’t let go, doesn’t stop smoothing Seb’s hair. “I wondered,” he says, finally, and Seb gives out something like a laugh, or a gasp. “Thought you’d say, if something was wrong. Are you...” Sebastian doesn’t look up, and John laces their left hands together, ring to ring, half a question.

Seb squeezes tight. “Fine. Fine without it, John, or I’d have said.”

“You did say,” John replies, quiet and bitter. “Right at the beginning. Not your fault, Bastian.” He’s sure enough that it almost sounds believable, and Bastian is so grateful that it’s pathetic. “I thought we had...” He pulls Seb close, until they’re almost wrapped each other in the chair, and it should be uncomfortable. Probably would be if Seb wasn’t so damned tired. “I can’t hurt you, Seb. Not like this.” His hand moves again, and Seb is starting to realize there’s blood on his upper lip, and a soreness from one eye, and a bruised feeling in his gut.

“I know,” Sebastian says. And they sit, as Seb leans against John and reminds himself how to breathe.


	3. Fulcrum

A trial basis.

Sherlock snorts and pulls back on Sebastian’s hair until the man’s head is craned at an angle that is almost unnatural, pupils dilated and pointed back at the ceiling. A trial based on what? Success? He runs the scalpel over the rise of adam’s apple, less than a half-inch from the carotid, jugular, trachea, and Moran does not so much as twitch.  Ridiculous. If that is the only requirement then John shouldn’t need a ‘trial’ at all. Surely he had made the situation clear enough.

Irrelevant. To be considered later. Now Sherlock is too focused on the line of blood coming from Sebastian’s throat, the steady way the man is breathing. The sensation is a familiar one, the focused relaxation, the desire to impress and (to some extent) serve, but seeing it from this side is new. Fascinating.

To think he had been worried about John’s safety. Moran is far too manipulable to become a problem.

Another line of blood, this time down the pectoral. Sebastian’s back is too thoroughly marked to be useful for this, the scarring dense enough in some places that it is almost crosshatching (and the skill it would take to create that effect is really quite remarkable) but the chest is almost completely untouched. The notable exceptions, of course, are the four deep lines that run from the right deltoid to the left latissimus dorsi. Not as precise, and therefore not Moriarty’s, though its obvious James enjoyed them. Claw marks. Unimportant. He draws the scalpel towards the first of them and Sebastian blinks, swallows. Discomfort. Not yet, then. Not those.

Something else, though, something to mark that Sebastian is no longer Moriarty’s. There is nothing left that belongs to Moriarty, Sherlock has made sure of it, has claimed it to the last smuggling ring and corner dealer. This is just the last thing, the final move in the game, and Sherlock considers for a moment before moving the scalpel down, sliding it in and under flesh. It’s a delicate task, even with the utter focus that Sherlock devotes to it, and when he is done Sebastian is drawing breaths so deep there is a vocal aspect to them, almost whining, and Sherlock’s mind feels clear and bright and still in a way it hasn’t for far too long.

“Well done,” he says, perfunctory, and sets down the scalpel, stripping off his gloves. “John will be in momentarily to... clean up.” He drops the square of skin into the bin, with only a brief flash of annoyance that he can’t keep something so potentially useful. Bad enough that he took it, cutting through such pronounced scarring and flaying away so much  skin. Using the remains, he thinks, would most likely be more than a bit Not Good.

Sebastian is blinking, looking even slower than usual, and Sherlock puts a hand on his chest for a moment as he folds a square of cotton bandage with the other, pressing it to the wound. “John!” he calls, and the answer from the main room is almost immediate as John comes down the hall at a run.

“Christ,” John says as he stands in the door, looking between the two of them. As if that is not clear enough, he repeats it. “Christ fuck, Sherlock, what did you do?”

“It’s already disposed of,” Sherlock says, because there is really no reason for this sort of histrionics. “You’ll just need to bandage...” But John isn’t listening, which isn’t a surprise in itself except for the fact that he’s pushing  Sherlock aside, pulling Sebastian up into his arms like he might hold a child. It takes entirely too long for Sherlock to work out why, to take into account the change of breath patterns, the twist of Sebastian’s back. Dropping, again. How could he have missed that tendency, the need for attention afterwards? He’d simply assumed that James wouldn’t have... Oh that is _annoying_ , and it becomes even more so as John turns his back and focuses in on Sebastian, leaving Sherlock with an entirely nonsensical sensation of vertigo.


	4. Force

It hits John in the middle of the supermarket, while he’s reaching for a can of peas. They’re just out of his reach, pushed back from the edge of the upper shelf, and Sebastian snorts a little and grabs them, wincing as he raises his arm.

His left arm.

The arm on his left side, where the bandage is still taped under the band of loose jeans, where there is skin missing, and flesh, and it is John’s fault, John who put him in this situation, John who gave Sherlock permission and this isn’t going to work, it isn’t, and the breath goes out of him in a rush.

“If you weren’t so fucking short, Johnny,” Seb is saying with a fond grin, and John can’t look at him, can’t be here right now, so he turns and walks away, leaving the cart where it stands. He’s going to lose them, probably both of them, and he deserves it for what he does, what he has done, what he wants to do. He deserves it for (first do no harm) abandoning his oath and he is outside standing in the rain without a clear idea of how he got there, and what will he do if he loses both of them at once?

“Johnny?” Seb’s voice sounds worried and John can’t look him in the eyes. “John,” Seb repeats, hand closing down on his shoulder. “Babe. Starting to worry me, here.” Which is so ridiculous that John has to laugh, a great shuddering sobbing choking noise, and he puts his face in his hands before it can go any further.

“I should have just done it,” he says. “Should have just taken it and. And I never should have touched him.” Nevermind that the thought of letting Sherlock hurt him makes his stomach roil, nevermind that Seb has been more at his ease than John has ever seen him. Nevermind especially that touching Sherlock in anything more than passing right now makes John _angry_ , and he refuses to mix that into a scene, John should have been there, should have done what they both needed, and instead he’s failed, he’s useless to both of them.

“Taken... Oh, fuck, John.” Seb pulls him close and John doesn’t even bother to struggle. “It’s fine, babe. You’re dropping, that’s all. You’ve been doing the right thing. Nothing to worry about.” His voice is solid, the hands on John’s shoulders almost practiced in their movements, and John is reminded that none of this is new for Seb. “You’ve been giving me... giving us both what we need. Don’t know how to thank you. C’mon, Johnny, you know we’d object like all hell if you were doing something wrong. Deep breaths, come on.” It sounds like it’s almost by rote, and John shudders at that, but he still leans against Seb’s chest as he struggles to breath


	5. Effort

“Hold still, ‘Bastian.” John’s voice, John’s fingers buried in his hair, stroking, and Seb lets out a breath and keeps it out, hoping that will be enough. “Just like that,” John says, with a sharp tug at his hair, and Sebastian has to close his eyes to keep from groaning. “You can go ahead, Sherlock.”

Cool hand on the small of his back, long fingers against the marks on his skin. Inspecting, not soothing. Then the first of the lancets sliding in and it pricks and it stings and Sebastian is so still. “Four of those and you can take a breath,” John says, quiet, stroking down his neck to the latticework of his shoulders. “Just three more, Sebastian. You’re doing really well.”

Three more stings and the first one still present in his back when John says, “Sherlock. Just a minute,” in a voice that Sebastian cannot imagine disobeying. He hurts, god he hurts, the sting of the needles is picking up into a full itching burning warmth that’s spreading out and when John says “Breathe, Sebastian,” he gasps in air and ruts up against nothing, needing contact.

“Stop that,” Sherlock says, and the blow that follows is blinding, solidly to the kidneys, just where the pain from two of the needles is starting to overlap. Seb cries out, buries his face in the pillow they’ve given him, and tries to process, tries to focus on what he is supposed to do over the roar of sensation. Hold still. Keep breathing.

“You’ve got to hold still, or you’ll ruin the experiment,” John says, reasonable and low, vibrating in Seb’s bones. “That’s all we’re asking. You can do that, Seb, surely.”

Seb turns his head to the side, to draw a breath, and John’s hand strokes the side of his face. “That’s better,” Sherlock says. “A few moments more, Sebastian. You’re doing quite well.”

The pain spreads, invasive and all-encompassing, out from the needles and up his back, down his sides until he is on fire, until breathing takes concentration, until there is no pain. No pain, just the pulse of his blood and John’s praise in his ears, and the knowledge that Sherlock is pleased and watching. It goes on forever, until Sebastian is unraveling around the edges, unable to focus, unsure where he ends.

“That’s enough,” John says, voice rough, and the needles are taken out, two at a time. “You can move, Sebastian.” Seb gasps, hands clenching against the table, and he looks up into John’s face.

Sherlock leaves a few minutes later, sated and more focused on the data he’s gathered than he can be on either of them, and that’s fine. He’ll be decent for days, until he needs John or Seb or both of them. Just now Seb is busy focusing on John’s teeth in his shoulder and he is finally balanced between them both.


End file.
